bring us some figgy pudding

I was once shocked to find myself reprimanding my mother over the fact that she hadn’t baked more when I was a child. I felt truly lacking that there hadn’t been the warm, soft notes of lemon cake or rich, delicious tones of chocolate wafting through the house on a lazy weekend afternoon, my little tummy not filled up with an afternoon’s dregs of sweet batter that had been lining the bowl on it’s way to the sink. It’s important here to note that my mother raised me on her own and worked full time. I have no doubt that as a lazy weekend afternoon approached, she barely had the energy to slump bum on bed and swing tired legs up to lose a few hours in a good book. And no one was more deserving. Quite often there is a trusty grandmother hiding in the wings to whet the appetite of a little person searching for a mucky cake tin to shuffle over to a corner with. Mine was certainly ever present and the most wonderful a girly girl could wish for, but the value she placed on health and nutrition in our diets, and a wonderful new world of microwave convection ovens with their plethora of new recipes on offer had this girly girl hungry for dessert. As a seven year old, I was lucky to find an expired block of cooking chocolate wedged behind a crock pot of apricot chicken. Though I once did, and suffice to say that nibbling down on a corner edge, unsure as to why a sizeable chunk wouldn’t break off between my teeth, sent me cold turkey off dessert for some time.

As a teen, I jumped on the skinny bandwagon obsessing over my waistline, so baking lost its sparkle for a while and took a back seat. Then I met J and believed that a tried and tested ways to a man’s heart was though his stomach. Little did I know that this one's culinary expertise far outweighed my own. I didn’t stand a chance against him and his quieter weekend afternoons practicing how to perfect the chocolate soufflé's fluffy pouf. Malcolm Gladwell tells me I’m about ten thousand hours behind him on the whisking and avid precision of oven temperature perfection. The days I spent planning my first meal for him seemed so romantic. Granted permission of his house keys the night before so as to access his kitchen before he was due home, each course had been meticulously thought through and I was convinced the night would be a huge success. Armed with every possible cooking utensil, I expected that his recent shift from firm bachelorhood would guarantee the kitchen drawers to be sporting just a few stray pieces of cutlery, and I was frankly quite impressed to find an extensive array of all things that yelled Bloody Good Chef. This is the point at which I should have retreated, tail between legs, white tea-towel raised high. The night ended on a less than happy note though, where I made it clear I would not step an inch beyond the boundary line of his kitchen again unless he was elsewhere and not eating. Looking back on him intent on finding the right melange of honey and vanilla bean with which to blanche a pannacotta, I am now the first to decanter a nice bottle of red and exit the kitchen.

Until now. Announcing that you’re having a baby leaves you an open target for all adages about life no longer being your own. But I feel a strong motherly urge to make the time and step back in the direction of a mixing bowl and preheated oven, and take up where my last two generations never had the oomph or inclination to. There will be the warm, rich aromas of afternoon tea wafting from my kitchen when my seven year old brings his friend home from school, and they will not belong to my husband! Christmas has seen me raid a friend’s kitchen for cake tins, all in the name of silly unprepared Western expat who can’t seem to find a department store in the country who can cater to her needs. Perhaps my fresh-off-the-boat Aussie twang is too much for the local Singaporean, or my suspicion is right: no-one in my generation, or another one that comes even remarkably close, has ever stepped big toe in a kitchen unless it’s to dish up takeaway.

Can you help me? I’m looking for a cake tin.

Can can. Cake tin made from what?

Oh dear.

The Chrissy pud looks good. Though it’s still under lock and key to allow for the brandy to do its thing. In fact, it’s so well tucked away that I lay in bed last night wondering where on Earth I’d put it. Cooking it certainly wasn't without a trial and tribulation or two, quite possibly because for some reason I took to reading the recipe like I do a magazine – backwards. So when it said mix dry ingredients together, I did, and isn’t sugar dry? Then because my measured quantity of flour got mixed with the sugar and should have been blended with the butter, I’d run out. So off out again to buy more. The zests I carefully zested in with the mixed fruit, because isn't zest fruit? Only to discover a few lines up that this is to be added last. Dilemma. But it came together in the end, looked the part and smelt lovely, wafting through the oven door.

They tell me that pud improves with age. As I write it sits, wrapped up and tucked away, and I ponder.. Is there an easier way next year? If I was to gently nudge it to the furthest reaches of the cupboard below the kitchen bench, could the brandy do its thing for another twelve months? Perhaps the proof really is in the pudding. If Stephanie Alexander knew her recipe had fallen into my hands, no doubt she'd have a thing or two to say. Get Out Of The Kitchen would be my guess.